Elided Mirths
by IngridNixie
Summary: Companion story to PotterSherlocketc's Sherlock trilogy. Liam always knew there'd be a day when there was no more Moriarty. He just didn't expect it to be now. Warning! This is very much the Torchwood to New Beginnings' Doctor Who. ie: More swearing, more violence, more /very slight/ sexual references. OC. Elided Mirths is an anagram of Riddle Me This. I know right.
1. Liam

One

'Jim's dead.'

The words were low, gruff, and emotionless as always. Or maybe… Perhaps there was a hint of it. Maybe Moran had choked a little in his speech. Maybe, but probably not. Liam pretended more than imagined that he had. Moran stepped around the table. He looked altogether uncomfortable in a suit, Liam decided. His large frame looked somewhat odd, clothed in pinstripe and a tie. Liam sat up.

'You don't believe it, though.' He said.

Moran shrugged.

'Dead or playing dead.' He said simply.

Liam fought not to roll his eyes.

'You haven't seen a body?' he asked

Moran shook his head. Liam's mouth twisted, and he studied the blonde man thoughtfully. Eventually, he spoke.

'So really, he's just missing.'

Moran looked up sharply.

'Jim Moriarty doesn't go missing.' He said. Then he looked away from Liam and added 'Not from me.'

Liam really did roll his eyes this time.

'Look Moran, unless we're discussing your exponentially big hero crush on the guy, that reasoning doesn't hold water. I just need to know what the hell of an impact this has on me.'

Moran looked at him for a moment, and Liam wondered whether he would risk hitting him a second time. Then he spoke, his voice containing a considerable amount of malice.

'It means it's all gone, kid. The whole empire.'

'Again, talking about me here…'

'It means playtime's over, kid.' Moran told him, almost smiling. 'It means, this 'protégé' status you've got yourself is gone. You're just a body like the rest of us. Just a body…'

He let the sentence hang in the air. That was his mistake. He'd been around Moriarty too long. He had to learn that you don't play with your food before you eat it. At least, not when your food can jump off your plate, grab your knife and fork and spear your body through. Moran didn't end up on the floor, but Liam didn't either. On the contrary, he ended that fight in the sky. Flying out of the window, to be exact. Ever prepared, Liam had the common sense to bring a desk chair with him. Mid flight, he pulled the cover from the chair and held it high above his head, as the rest of the chair plummeted to the ground. Moran wouldn't have thought of it. Hell, Moran would've been too big to pull it off. That was the only reason Liam needed to do this in the first place. Moran and his stupid jealousy. Moriarty had liked him, sure, but Moran could never _be _him. That was Liam's job.

Moriarty had been shaping Liam for ten years, moulding him into a miniature version of himself. His 'pet project'. A contingency plan, if some unfortunate incident left him somewhat less than alive. It had obviously not occurred to the dear old consulting criminal what to do if Liam was left in the sole care of a jealous and temperamental half bodyguard half 'personal companion'. Perhaps Moriarty hadn't planned to die so young. Perhaps he had trusted Moran. Perhaps he didn't care.

Liam shook his head. Either way, he was here now, slowly reaching ground level, his makeshift parachute keeping him barely afloat. As soon as hit feet touched tarmac, he set off at a run, the chair cover still in his hand.


	2. The Holmes Kid

Two

When Liam awoke, he almost forgot about the day before. Almost forgot about all of it. His master's downright unhealthy obsession with Sherlock Holmes, said master's premature death, Moran's betrayal, and the unsettling nature of his current sleeping quarters. One move of his leg however, reminded him. He groaned and opened his sleep caked eyes to daylight. He frowned in the realisation that he'd never slept so late before. He had spent the better part of the night before running through London, but still.

The alley he had settled in was dank and groggy, and for once he was glad of his lack of a fifth sense. Moriarty had called the anosmia his one imperfection. Liam almost smiled at the thought. He shifted his weight and sat up, groaning as he felt the crook in his neck. In moving his hand, he felt something rustle against it. Looking down, he discovered a rolled up newspaper where a pillow might have been. Perhaps some thoughtful stranger… then he noticed the green highlighter and sighed. Of course not. He stretched out against the grimy wall, repositioning the chair cover –which had been serving as a kind of mattress-duvet type thing, and unfurled the paper in front of him.

_'REICHENBACH HERO STRIKES AGAIN.' _The headline read. Beneath it was a face Liam had grown to know all too well, although the only times he'd seen it close up in photographs. The green highlighter, however, was not concentrated on the image of Sherlock Holmes. Nor did it touch Holmes' own personal Moran, standing to his left. A separate article, smaller than the main, with the headline _'WHO IS SHE?' _was highlighted. Liam looked at the words below. _'Claudia Brown gives her thoughts on the mysterious "Holmes kid", page 12.' _Hurriedly, he flipped to the specified page. Two lines, a fat florescent cross, lay over the head of a young girl. The image was blurred, out of focus, and the girl's head looked as if it was in the process of turning away from the cameras. The highlighter stained the rest of the page too. _'She's all yours, kid.' _He knew that phrase. That was Moriarty speak for: 'Make it look like an accident'.

Liam's eyes drifted back to the photograph. Early teens, he decided. Somewhere between eleven and fifteen, but it was safe to assume she looked young for her age. _'HOLMES KID- THE REAL GENIUS?' _the line above it read. He moved to the article.

_Although Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have been seen often over previous weeks, there is one inhabitant of 221B Baker Street the public have yet to be introduced to. The photo above is the clearest in only five existing of the enigmatic 'Holmes kid'. Sources at Scotland Yard have confirmed that this –as yet unnamed- girl is present at many, if not all, of Holmes' cases, and has been doing so for years. Child Psychoanalyst Deirdre O'Sullivan had this to say: "The idea that this child is being regularly exposed to crime scenes is shocking. An upbringing of this nature can severely affect the well being of a young person, both physically and emotionally. In my professional opinion, it is integral to the welfare of this girl that an investigation as to the accuracy of these claims is carried out. If there is truth in them, then one must seriously question Mr Holmes' mental state." There have been concerns about Holmes' state of mind before this. Surely someone with that amount of intelligence must have some hurdle? Both Holmes and his associate, bachelor John Watson, have refused to comment when asked about the child. One can assume that she is Holmes' daughter or other relation- the physical resemblance is obvious even from these low quality pictures. Fan sites have spawned countless theories, and although they differ wildly, most culminate in the opinion that the Holmes kid may have a hand in solving Holmes' mysteries. It seems for the moment however, that the identity of the girl will remain unknown. This reporter calls for an investigation to be made, to determine not only if the Holmes kid is safe, but also if Sherlock Holmes is indeed as clever as he is seen to be._

Liam read it through twice, and then groaned. The article gave him little information, and none that he couldn't have worked out for himself. He tossed the paper aside in annoyance. It would've worked if he was Moran. If he wanted to believe Moriarty was still alive, sending messages. He smirked. He wouldn't follow the note. Wild goose chase. Someone trying to play on his emotions. Someone who had made the misconception that Liam allowed time for emotions.

He looked back at the picture of the girl. She was cute, in that doll-like, odd sort of way some people are. Liam frowned thoughtfully, then grabbed the chair cover from the ground. He had time for a wild goose chase. Smiling slightly, he ripped the picture from its black and grey frame and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He stood and, the chair cover dangling from one hand, began to walk.

That was the first picture.


End file.
